


57th Avenue

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 70's, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Hairspray AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey doll. Name’s Brent. What’s yours?” and then <i>winks</i> at hers.</p><p>Its Derek’s signature pick-up line on the show and Stiles feels his cheeks flaming.</p><p>“I can hear your manly gushing from here.” Scott teases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	57th Avenue

**Author's Note:**

> So, first things first, this is a Hairspray AU. Those whom have seen the movie/musical/etc are in luck if you have a huge wet-on for Link, then yes, you're in luck! However, it doesn't follow closely to the show, I have changed almost everything in regards to setting, alternate names, etc. But, it is taking place in the late 70's! And I may have abused a lot of slang being used in the 70's (with gratuitous thanks to my mother, google and my brain for making up words)
> 
> Also, this draft has been sitting on my wip folder along with probably ten other fics and this story has been calling out to me for /months/ and I want to pursue finishing it! So, please stay with me along with this ride and I promise I'll try to make it good!
> 
> Alas! You shall proceed :3  
> (((also, this /has/ vanilla sex instead of the kinky shit you guys love me for, so hurray, or boooo, for that!!!!)

Stiles lives and loathes Mondays.

Maybe it’s because the first day blues ride with him after burning short weekends where he runs through a list of mundane household chores given by Pa while also taking up an excessive amount of lawn trimming for the neighbours.

What? He needs that spare bread for his hair products.

It’s a top form requirement actually and it’s because Pa doesn’t scratch out any of his good cash for that. He deems it unruly. Fit for only the greaser kids that hop school and hang around at the park downtown with their cigarettes, ink and brew.

Well, Pa knows nothing about hair and teenagers.

-

Stiles is trudging his feet through the front gates of Beacon H. High (The ‘H’ stands for Hades, by the way) and groans in irritation with every step he takes. He hates it here, not just the school although the physical construct of it makes him cringe—all tinged yellow bricks and white paint that’s peeling with rust—but just the general concept of _here_.

It’s stifling.

 _Unlike California_ , he sighs wistfully.

Stiles prefers it there, actually. Well, from what he observes on television, it’s where all the celebrities reign and shine with glitz and glamour—hair teased just nicely with the rough amount of hair spray which people from small towns like his simply don’t understand.

He belongs there and it’s the thought of graduation approaching soon that makes his heart _thump._

His agonized mood eases when he sees Scott, his best friend of almost a decade, at the outdoor parking area waving enthusiastically at him as he parks his motorbike. The bike looks like its seen better days, like when they were glossy and sheened with cheap wax instead of being covered with scratches and splattered mud stains..

“Hey! Stiles boy!” Scott yells, grinning splittingly. “Over here, kid!”

Stiles returns with a two finger salute as he walks over, shoulder bumping him. “Scott!” He chimes. “My best man! What’s chilling, eh?”

Scott sighs, dramatically. Everything with him is dramatic. “Things been bad, kid.” He says, smile faltering. “Nothing’s been real up ever since you took up more grass than you could up with a pair of damn snippers. You’re a spaz, you know?”

Stiles snorts, amusement bouncing in his eyes as he twists the ends of his hair with his index and thumb. “Life’s been real tough for you without my presence, huh? Getting mopey and scratching Elvis records?”

“Dream on, man!”

Stiles straps an arm over his shoulder, laughing. “Always am, Scottie boy.”

-

Stiles is fiddling around with a pen in between his fingers, shaking his legs while impatiently waiting for the minutes to quickly tick by on the large overhead clock in the classroom. There’s a faint drone of his peers chattering about some group science project that Grouchy Harris just gave out which he also realizes that he’s probably going to be stuck doing it all alone as Scott isn’t in this class.

Well, Stiles’ nothing but a sure B plus student anyway. On a good day.

The school bell rings two minutes later and Stiles’ jerkily jumps off his seat while yanking onto the strap of his messenger bag, tugging it onto his shoulder. He mad dashes out of the class to find Scott the bastard already at the front gate, tapping his feet and two helmets suavely tucked under his armpits.

“Ready?” Stiles pants, eyes bright and cheeks rosy with the spontaneous physical exertion.

“Since five minutes ago, you doddle.”

-

They, and by they Stiles means Scott, in less than ten minutes as he’s an expert at ducking lanes and swerving past red stop signs on his motorbike as though he’s a road ticket waiting to be issued while Stiles daintily drives in his jeep.

He likes his limbs intact, thank you very much.

Scott’s already lounging on the couch when he finally makes it back to his crib, legs already kicked out in front of him on the coffee table and clearly making himself at home. Stiles narrows his eyes and then whacks at his feet, shouting that he really doesn’t want feet rank all over the daily papers.

Scott makes disgruntled yelps at him, shouting, “This is abuse, Stilinski! Abuse! M’ gon’ report you to the sheriff, young man.” when he shuffles into the kitchen.

Stiles snorts as he starts popping popcorn on the stove.

-

“Oy! Dipstick! Coke or—”

“Been ten years we’ve been best buds, man.” Scott cuts in, chewing around his words as he pops another corn kettle into his mouth. “Do you even need to ask?”

“Coke it is, then!” Stiles announces gleefully, whipping out the bottle opener from one of the drawers.

“Hurry, Stiles!” He shouts impatiently instead of offering help like a polite guest should. “It’s gon’ start soon and you’re gonna miss the best part!”

“Damn hussy.” Stiles mutters hotly and then thrusts the coke bottle at Scott, hopes for a little spillage as he plops beside him on the couch. “I’m not your maid, you inconsiderate fool.”

“Aw.” He coos sarcastically, obviously learning it from the best, and pats him on the thigh. It makes Stiles want to give him a good right hook in between the eyes. “Don’t you wish you were though? Top it off with those French maid dresses? Pretty lady, you would be.”

Stiles flicks him on the nose, cursing and then throws a handful of popcorn directly to his face as revenge. Which, yeah, definitely a bad call because Scott scoff wildly, eyes hysterical and rises up to the challenge, digging both hands into the bowl then flings a good chuck right back at him.

It sets off a popcorn war and Stiles only waves the white flag when the commercial on television ends mid-tune and a jazzy blues song starts to ring through the tinny of the television set.

“Halt! Halt, c’mon!” Stiles huffs. “Stop tossing any damn kettles at me already, you fucker. It’s starting!”

Scott makes an indignant noise through his nose and tosses one more popcorn kettle at him. Dipstick.

They slowly quieten down after that, humming along with the lyrics as the song progresses, watching the intro credits roll for the show.

 _57_ th Avenue  
Misfits that comes in twos  
Cigarettes and rules for fools  
It’s Brent and the crew

 _Stray nights and fallen days_  
Rebels in restrain  
Tough love and  
Rough love  
Yeah

 _57_ th Avenue  
Misfits that comes in twos  
Cigarettes and rules for fools  
It’s Brent and the crew

When it ends, Stiles says for the hundredth time and with as much passion one can ignite with speech. “Most fucking wicked theme song, man. No Breakfast at Tiffany’s can beat that.” Which Scott nods his head enthusiastically, agreeing, because _it is._

Nothing and Stiles really mean _nothing_ tops 57th Avenue.

It’s a televised series that has been going on strong for two seasons now and Stiles more than worships it. His entire life is centralized around it—he thinks, breathes and basically exists with the show in his mind. 

_Especially_ when he’s pulling one off.

However, many of the old duds would disagree with him since the television show basically revolves around the lives of misfits that are still undergrads of high school. Also, there may be the occasional rebellious stunts… and gun-downs.

Yeah. Fuck that. It is the sole reason for why Stiles lives for Mondays and he isn’t going to let misguided parents that obviously don’t know a thing or two about the television business since they’re still milking out cash for Elvis records, fawning over him like he’s god-sent with his moves.

“Audrey’s a babe though.” Scott makes an off-handed comment while crunching around a mouthful of popcorn.

Stiles waves a dismissive hand at that. “Yeah, yeah. _Sure._ Whatever you say, Bob. Not more than Derek, ‘course.”

Scott elbows him teasingly because he’s a total candyass. Stiles is about to make a good rebuttal with a head butt or something but that’s when Derek, or Brent – the character he plays on 57th Avenue – appears on the television screen.

His eyes glaze over as he greedily takes in Derek’s attire. He’s wearing a skin tight white collared crew shirt and over it, a leather jacket to match his fitting pants that melts against his skin. Every article of clothing stretches so nicely on his body, accentuating the dips and tone of his body and _god_ —his hair. It’s been overly gelled and then teased into a pompadour at the front of his crown that would look silly on anyone else but him.

Also not forgetting the five o’clock shadow that rakes down mid-length of his neck— and the muscles.

 _So_ much muscles.

He mildly snaps out of his leering when the scene changes and it shows Brent – or Derek—taking a long drag from his cigarette stick, eyes trained on this redhead chick that’s already blushing behind the counter at the cinema theatre.

It’s probably a scene for the crew’s misdoings because Brent suavely stalks up to her, leans against the counter that could only be considered outrageously filthy and then holds her softly at the chin, tips of his lips curling into a smug grin as he murmurs:

“Hey doll. Name’s Brent. What’s yours?” and then _winks_ at hers.

Its Derek’s signature pick-up line on the show and Stiles feels his cheeks flaming.

“I can hear your manly gushing from here.” Scott teases, waggling his thick eyebrows.

Stiles glowers at him, insulted because he totally isn’t gushing even though his conscience is yelling that he’s a liar. “Go suck a cock, McCall.” And wraps his lips around the coke bottle, slurping noisily.

Scott’s breath hitches a little and he tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes twitching around nervously. “Well… If it is Leslie’s cock then, uh, maybe…?”

Stiles makes a surprised noise through his nose. “Oh? That right, kid? So you’ve finally succumbed to the little English twist that Isaac brings to the table?”

He really is genuinely taken back because Scott’s always been an Erica—Tammie – man. It’s something about how all that wavy blonde locks of hair looks distinctive in a group of dark haired lackeys that seem to detract all attention away from the boys.

Also helps that she has a nice set of breasts. What?

Stiles bets on both sides, okay. It’s the late 1970’s and the world is slowly revolutionizing especially now that homosexuality has been making big in parts of San Francisco and California. It’s just simply a matter of time before chicks and cats start getting it on with their own sex throughout the other parts of America.

“Just saying, man.” Scott starts, laughing nervously. “He’s… revolutionized.” See, what did Stiles just say? “Became a total fox, that boy. And I really want to be his hound.”

“Nicely put.” Stiles laughs approvingly. “Nicely put.”

-

They are in the same history class with just a row difference in seating arrangement because Madam Tully thinks they’re a bad type of distraction for each other and the entire class. She’s currently ranting on about the Second World War with a level of interest that makes Stiles ears hurt.

Half of the class are already dozing off on their study desks or are like him, blankly staring at the chalkboard while blowing drool bubbles between their lips.

Scott’s no different. He’s probably in the almost nap zone because his head keeps jerking left and right. Well, Stiles shall change that. He’s been meaning to wait until school was over to share the news with Scott but the jittery anxiousness of having precious information build in him is starting to get too much.

“ _Psst_ ,” Stiles aggressively whispers and then proceeds to throw a scrunched up paper ball at him which bounces off his head.

Scott slowly turns around, answering in a slurred, biting tone.

“What?”

Stiles flails his arms around, pointing at the ball of paper that has landed on the ground beside the chair that Scott’s sitting on. “Read it!”

He’s almost bouncing in his chair, awaiting for Scott to read the message and to share the excitement with him because—fucking _major_. It’s also the main reason why he was a little late for school today and received his third pink slip for detention which he’s still very bitter about.

“Kid,” Scott finally hisses in a low tone, eyes widening with clarity. “You yanking my chain? Because this— _this_ is fucking bananas, Stiles! You real with this information?”

“Yes!” Stiles swears, grinning splittingly and crosses his fingers against his chest. “The entire damn crew of 57th Avenue are coming to Beacon— _Beacon, Scottie!_ – for a shooting. Not the pew pew type though. Pa just told me about it in the morning. Well, more like I squeezed it out of him as I fry up some bacon after I… _accidentally_ came to light with some of the files he brought home yesterday. Told me its top secret info but _pfft_. You’re my best bud so I’m tellin’.”

Scott makes an eager noise out of his mouth, gesturing his hands as though saying ‘go on, continue rambling on, you mad panty waist.’

“Well, their agent dialled up the head of Beacon Police and then it got transferred to Pa’s line and the next time you know it, the copper chain was working like a hutzy and Pa’s in charge of the whole dig-down! They demanded for tight security for the next month. Just in case some zappy fans wanna jump them during filming.”

Scott drops his jaw, stunned. “ _Jump_ them?”

“Not that! Bones jumping, my man!” Stiles whisper-shouts, giggling like a teenage chick that just took her first sip in brew. “Humping the weenie? Rolling the dough?”

“Oh my god.” Scott says with a grimace. “Stop—stop with that. It’s as bad when Whittemore tries to use your mother comebacks on the show.” Then launches off excitedly with a question. “Hold up, kid. _Isaac’s_ coming?”

Stiles nods his head furiously, almost close to bursting off his seat. “Derek too! The whole damn crew!”

“Stilinski and McCall!” Madam Tully’s voice breaks out like a clap of thunder in the classroom that has a few students snapping their heads up from their desks, wiping the drool that’s on their face.

Stiles sniffles the laughter that’s bubbling in his throat.

“If your little… _chitty-chat_ is to be associated with the topic, then by all means, continue prospering with history!” She says intimidatingly. “If not, I would recommend your mouths to shut it or you’ll be visiting the dean.”

Stiles mimes a zipping up motion against his lips and then throws the imaginary key behind him but Scott gawks and point fingers at him. Fucking ditz.

Madam Tully just huffs, giving them another warning glare before she continues to talk about a war that nobody really gives a whack.

-

“Did you see the vans passing?” Stiles yells, breathless, as he runs up to Scott where he’s parking his motorbike. “They rode down my street in the morning when I was making a cup of black for Pa!”

“Say what?” Scott grunts, jerking down the stopper.

“The vans!” Stiles starts, looking at him wildly as his hands fly up to the air. “For the crew? They had stars on ‘em! Big yellow ones at the side with the 57th Avenue print just beside it. It was righteous, man.”

Scott gives him a judgemental look.

“Derek must have gotten your little panties all nicked and loopy brained, kid. I live in a shitty crib with my Ma, if you remember.” He says, rolling his eyes as though Stiles didn’t already know it. “My window looks out to old Barbara with her saggy breasts. Last thing with stars I’d see would be her giving me a good hook in the face for even breathing in her general vicinity.”

Oh. Right. Stiles forgot about that.

“But still!” Stiles continues because the one thing about him is that he’s persistent, even when wrong. “Maybe you’ve seen them while riding? They were so fine, Scottie. Not that I could see as the windows were wiped black.”

“You tryin’ to get me jealous, kid?”

“Never.” Stiles replies earnestly and then smirks when a brilliant idea strikes him. “Wanna hop school?”

“Pulling a Brent now, aren’t you?”

“Hey!” Stiles yelps, pursing his bottom lips out. “I can be real nifty too, you know. I’ve got the jacket, although it’s down from the thrift store but only we know that, and the hair. I’m almost as bad as him.”

Scott snorts, laughing as he slides off the seat off his motorbike. “Say that to me when you score some fine action with some tricks, yeah?”

Stiles flips him off. “You’re no better player than I am. Need we bring up the, hm, what was it? _Argent_ incident?”

The Argent Incident, to date, is still one of Scott’s most humiliating but Stiles’ most humorous memory to dig up about because—because Scott’s got no game. He really doesn’t. All this talk about tricks and what’s not, Stiles has at least played the field, like way back in elementary school but it still counts. Scott though, he ended up spitting at Allison Argent’s face with a mouthful of coke when she simply asked to borrow a pencil.

“ _Ugh._ Quit it.” Scott groans, chafed. “Some people are so touchy to sensitive topics.”

“Eat it up, dork.” Stiles announces, grinning. “Now, let’s ditch. I’ll hitch you a ride with Betty.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't throw rocks at me and luv me pls D:


End file.
